


Ride Or Die

by sweetheartdean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Becky's weird-ass opinions don't reflect the author's whatsoever, Breaking the Fourth Wall, Episode: s05e09 The Real Ghostbusters, F/M, Season/Series 05, light Destiel and Castiel shade, shades of Wincest, shameless crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 13:53:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16138616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetheartdean/pseuds/sweetheartdean
Summary: Becky's, like, really in love with Sam. She knows for sure Dean can relate.





	Ride Or Die

**Author's Note:**

> written for the SPN Masquerade: 
> 
> "Dean and Becky bond over the one thing they love more than anything else: Sam. They decide to say to hell with it and spend a night of passion together." 
> 
> (In this fic, Becky expresses a lot of weird fandom takes the author doesn't subscribe to.)

The First Ever Supernatural Convention was in full swing. They were playing some lively music over there, but it was all gloom and doom over here in Becky’s little corner. Which was so, so stupid. She shouldn’t be sitting here nursing a pink cocktail and doodling broken hearts on a napkin. She should be out there, enjoying being among like-minded people who just want to see Sam and Dean finally throw caution to the wind and make out on the Impala hood, as they should have done back in book one, chapter two.

But her heart was not in it today, and you know things are bad when Becky Anne Rosen’s heart isn’t into imagining Sam and Dean playing tonsil hockey. 

Because, of course, imagining Sam with Dean was fun, but imagining Sam with her was even more fun, and for some fleeting moment, she thought, ah, maybe her wet dream could come true and she wouldn’t have to imagine it was Sam’s large palm down her cotton panties. 

But alas, Sam’s been totally unresponsive to all her flirting. Not her best lines (“hey, I’d go to Hell and back just to be with you!”), not her enthusiastic straw-licking, not her attempt to play footsie, none of it has been landing! You miss a hundred percent of the shots you don’t take, but sometimes you miss a hundred percent of the shots you do take as well.

“Whiskey. On the rocks.” A rustle of a-too-large leather jacket later, Dean freaking Winchester sits down next to her. “Can’t expect me to make it through this shitfest sober,” he adds under his breath. Becky scowls. He hasn’t been too nice. Then again, what should she have expected? Dean was so… macho. And even though he was way prettier than the books described him—like, in a girly way—the inside brash filling was all the same. 

Now, Sam… there was a sensitive soul to match hers. 

She looks up at Dean, inspecting his face to write about it more accurately. Someone online gave her so much “constructive criticism” (read: gave her crap) about her referring to Dean’s lips as BJ lips in a fic she wrote since meeting them face-to-face. But if the critic has seen Dean I-R-L, they would’ve known there’s no other way to describe them. 

Becky stares again. He’s pretty, really pretty. It’s a shame he’s a dick. 

She turns her thoughts back to Sam. Sweet, kind, charming Sam who would’ve swept her off her feet if he only noticed her. If he only understood Becky’s a ride or die bitch who would be there by his side through all the world-saving crap. She’d sew him up after hunts. She took a first-aid course since meeting him just for that!

But Sam won’t even look at her.

“What’s wrong with me?” she sighs into her pink drink.

“You want that list in alphabetical order or…” 

First, Becky must’ve said it way too loudly. Second, this just proves, yet again, that Sam’s the better brother and that’s just true. Sam would never say mean stuff like that. 

“Oh, bite me, Winchester!” she says and slurps some more of the cocktail for emphasis. “You wouldn’t know a woman’s suffering if it hit you in the face, you… you philanderer!” 

Dean holds back a laugh and turns around to face her, his elbow against the bar.

“A philanderer, huh?”

“Yup. Love ‘em and leave ‘em. I know all about it. And you lie about who you are, too!” 

“Not that I owe you an explanation, but… hey, it’s the only game in town when you’re a hunter.” Dean shrugs. Chugs that amber whiskey like it’s water. He must be an alcoholic, too. There’s been some heavy subtext implying that. “Sometimes a lie’s the best case scenario.”

Becky thinks about the brave Sam, her beloved character that helped her connect with her friends. About the sweet, sweet Sammy living in her stories, hopelessly in love with Dean. 

And now every time she’ll log on the morethanbrothers dot com, she’ll feel it, this pang of anxiety and sadness because she had her shot with Sam and she squandered it somehow without even noticing it. The fantasy was, in fact, better than reality, because the fantasy never ever could’ve rejected her.

All she wanted was to be Dean—not this Dean, the Dean from her stories, when he threw his macho-d-ness aside and let Sam take him apart. Of course, she’s been imagining herself in Dean’s place, on her back with her freckly bowlegs in the air.

But it’s not just about sex, too. She’s been imagining herself in Dean’s place with every hug Sam gave him-her, with every time Sam looked at Dean with these understanding eyes and said, “it’s okay” and “we’ll make it through it”. Meant that she could get through the next day with the boss yelling at her for bringing the wrong kind of coffee or her mom getting huffy because Becky didn’t have kids yet, “you’ll never find a husband in that internet of yours!”.

Sam was there. And he helped.

And now Sam was real, and he helped so much less. Never meet your idols, right?

God, this is so humiliating. She never even should’ve tried. 

Becky sobs once, twice, before full-on crying, tears spilling on the glossy surface.

“Whoa, whoa,” Dean’s voice resounds, and he’s unsure because he doesn’t know what to do when people cry. Becky figured that one out a long time ago. If he had, he’d be hugging Sam every time he as much as looked downtrodden. “What is it?”

“Sam doesn’t like me!” she yells on top of her lungs, making the Hookman sitting on the stool next to her jump. 

“You did kinda start off the wrong foot. I mean, grabbin’ him? Really?” Dean sounds exactly like the kind of jealous bitch Becky knew he was. Her tears even took a brief hiatus at that. “We might’ve been a story to you, but we’re real people.” He slams the empty glass back at the bar and gestures for a second one. “That’s the shit people here don’t fucking get! Our lives ain’t up for dissection and discussion. We’re fucking trying to save the world here while you’re getting your jollies on by writing about Sam— Sam fucking losing his legs or something!”

Yes, the amputee!Sam verse. Becky is an avid fan. The author has such a way with words. And Dean is so sweet in it, even if somewhat OOC. She sniffles, wiping her face.

“It’s fucked. That’s all. I’m not even gonna touch on the whole incest thing. You freaks.” He shakes his head. “Or the stories where Castiel and I get it on. I mean, what’s the obsession with sex?”

“Really? Dean Winchester is asking me why sex’s a big deal?” Becky grins. It’s easier to talk to Dean than Sam. She doesn’t feel that bone-deep need to impress, pleaselikemepleaseplease!. Or maybe the alcohol helps. This deceptively cute drink with an umbrella packs a punch!

“Ha. Touche. What’s the obsession with the buttsex?”

Becky sighs. “It’s not about the “buttsex”,” she parrots back with air quotes. “It’s about the bond you have. It’s about wanting you to have that meaningful connection with another human being for once. And even when you get paired up with Feathers,” Becky rolls her eyes so hard she swears she can see her brain, “I guess it comes from those fans wanting you to be loved, too. Even though you two wouldn’t be a good match. That trenchcoat creep would never accept that he’s second best in Dean’s, uh… your heart to Sammy.”

Dean grows a little green and distracts himself with some more whiskey chugging. 

“Anyway, it’s the same with the hurt/comfort fics… uh, stories where one of you suffers? We all just wanna see you overcome it. Together. Because we know if you can kick demon’s ass and crawl out of Hell, we can face our daily grind. And, y’know, Sam’s so tall and so strong, and… I just wish I had someone like him with me in real life. He wouldn’t ever let you down.”

Dean looks down at his glass. “Guess so,” he says, voice clipped.

“Oh, Dean. Chuck showed me all the other books he wrote after they temporarily pulled the plug on the series,” Becky says softly. “Sam didn’t mean for the Apocalypse to happen. He’s just been… well, it was hard for him for the first time without you. And Ruby was there, whispering lies in his ear.” Becky rubs Dean’s back, getting a little closer. “He’d die for you.”

“Sam would die for anyone, the idiot,” Dean mutters, and maybe he’s had enough to get him drunk, ‘cause his eyes get weirdly shiny or maybe that’s just the lights in the bar, but he sure seems emotional. Aw, he has a soft side. Like in “Home”, when he called John! Wow, Becky’s truly honored to be witness to one of Dean Winchester’s Rare Moments Of Weakness.

“Sam helped me so much,” Becky says at last. “I hurt my sister a while back... and I found the strength to own up to it and apologize thanks to Sam. He’s the best man I’ve ever seen.” She exhales dreamily. “Sam saved my life more times than I could possibly count.”

Dean chews on his bottom lip. “Guess that makes two of us,” he says in a sotto voice. 

“Sam is in your corner, Dean. Ride or die.” Like Becky wishes he was for her. “That’s what these stories are about. It’s not about the dicks. It’s about Sam and you being there for each other. Until the bitter end.”

“Until the bitter end? I’ll drink to that.” Dean salutes her with his somehow-refilled whiskey glass (how many did he have? She’s still nursing her first!). “Sam’s one of the good guys. But, shit, even good guys can fuck up.” Well, duh, that’s the whole point of the books from Lazarus Rising to Lucifer Rising, but whatever. Dean didn’t come here to listen to her meta about how solid Sam’s demon blood storyline was. 

“You’re worried you won’t stop Lucifer,” Becky says, a statement rather than a question. “You’ve beat everything life threw at you so far. Why does the devil have to be any different?”

“Uh, ‘cause it’s the devil? The actual fucking devil, pre-historical pure evil with a hard-on for my little brother?” Dean swears under his breath, and if you ask Becky, that’s no way to talk around a lady. But since they’re talking about the Apocalypse—like, everyone super dead Apocalypse—she’s gonna let it slide.

Becky has been saving this speech for Sam, but Dean’s okay, too, she figures. He’ll pass on the sentiment to Sammy, if not with words, then with a silent offering of beer or going stargazing. 

“There are thousands of people out there believing in you. Look around, Dean. They wouldn’t be here if they didn’t care about what you two do. Yes, they don’t know you’re real, but what does it matter? Your story still touched them. Here.” Becky splays her fingers in the middle of Dean’s chest, fingers brushing against his amulet—the amulet, she realizes with silent trepidation. “Do you remember the Tulpa case? It’s gotta count for something when so many have faith in you.” She giggles, nervous. “Maybe I’ll post the Tulpa symbols on my website to help you two win!”

“Don’t you fucking dare. You people are gonna Tulpa us even more evil shit to deal with.”

Dean makes a very good point there.

“Thanks, I guess.” He rubs his mouth. “Good to know at least someone out there has a lick of faith left over.”

“I do. And so does Sam, I just know it,” she says, and Dean finally really looks at her, the whole mess of her in knee-high socks and a sweater vest, and gives her the come-hither face. Becky all but fans herself.

Those are fucking blowjob lips. “deanchester12” was cordially invited to bite her. 

\---

Before they can get to business, Dean re-salts all the doors and the windows in the motel room and adds a couple more sigils on the wall. The Winchester brand of housekeeping. At first it was fun, but then it got boring. They’re supposed to have a night of passion here! And she has to watch him channel his inner Van Gogh all over the floral wallpaper instead.

She pokes around the room as she waits. When she accidentally drops the lamp, Dean flinches hard.

\---

Dean’s as good of a kisser as the books said he would be. Five stars out of five, would recommend to a friend. He wouldn’t let Becky kiss the Samulet, though. Not even a little tiny kiss. Ugh. 

“You know,” Becky says, and tilts her head to the side as she inspects a very shirtless Dean, “from all the fanart, I expected you to have rock-hard abs.” Dean glares in her direction which makes her hastily add, “but this is hot, too!”

“With lines like that, you should work at a phone sex company.” 

She shoves him on the bed, climbs on top of him. Dean seemed so fucking subby in the vague Chuck-penned erotica in the books, and, hell, Becky can be wild in the sack if needs be. She handcuffed a dude once! “Does Sam have abs?” she asks, nonchalant-like.

“Mhm. The guy’s built like a brick shithouse.” Dean rolls his eyes. Becky lets out a dreamy sigh. “Works out all the fucking time. Jogs in the mornings. Who the fuck is he trying to impress?”

“Uh, you!” Becky says, rubbing his crotch to make little Dean spring into action. 

“Mhm. Sure he does.” 

Becky huffs. Then comes up with a plan. It’s not a genius plan, but it, most certainly, is a plan of some kind. “Maybe he’s doing it to impress Castiel. They’d make a nice couple, don’t you think? Remember that long, tender handshake when they just met?” Becky squeals, but, like, in a subdued, classy way. Dean raises his eyebrow. Aha! He’s so jealous.

“So, what, I can’t screw Cas but if Sam does it, that’s fine with you people? Why?” he says, almost appalled. 

“Well, Sam’s kinda my favorite. I don’t like seeing him left out. I want him to have all the dicks he wants.”

“You people are weird.”

She tugs Dean’s jeans down and pulls off her own panties, covered in cartoon kittens. Dean cocks an eyebrow at them. 

“You wore pink satin panties once,” Becky says, and that shuts him up alright. “Condom?”

“My wallet,” Dean says, tossing it to her. She inspects it for future writing reference and even unzips a compartment which has Dean grabbing for it helplessly.

“That’s not where the con—”

“Awww!” Becky gasps as she pulls out a well-loved and heavily creased photo. Sam and Dean, both bundled up, cheeks drunk-and-cold-rosy. Sam’s got his arm slung over Dean’s shoulder, Dean’s leaning into him. It’s a happy picture. She’s willing to bet they don’t have many of those.

“You’re killing my boner,” Dean says, long-suffering. “You’re murdering it right now.”

Becky checks it. It’s still standing stiff like a flagpole. Still, she doesn’t want to risk not getting dicked. Cute Sammy pictures will still be there once she’s done screwing Dean. So Becky fishes out that condom and tears the foil open.

Maybe she didn’t get to be Sam’s ride or die, but she got to ride Dean in their motel room, and how wicked is that? She eyes Sam’s bed, undone, and wonders if the pillows still smell of him and if she can get a sniff without Dean noticing.

“Save a horse, ride a cowboy,” she hums, straddling him, and Dean throws his head back, groaning and moaning at the same time.

Dean’s got a nice dick. Thick and veiny and everything. Stretches her pussy really nice as she sinks on him, inch by inch. She’s kind of imagining Sam right now, though. A leftover habit of imagining pretty much any partner as Sam.

Dean’s eyes are shut, and a small part of Becky can’t help but wonder, as she bounces up and down his girthy shaft, if Dean’s imagining Sam too. If he’s imagining Sam speared open on his meatstick, up and down, up and down. Sam’s rippling thighs working up a storm. Sam’s dexterous, talented tongue swooping all over inside Dean’s mouth as the two tongues collided like a wave and a rocky shore.

If he’s imagining Sam’s strong arms holding him in a tender embrace. Sam’s hair falling in his face, silky soft. If he’s imagining himself kissing both Sam’s dimples and the tip of his pointy pink nose.

It’s okay if he is. She is, too, and it just makes her wetter and the slide go faster, and she’s going to town on Dean fucking Winchester and he likes it. His blush does, in fact, make his freckles stand out. And, yes, they do go all the way down. 

Dean’s got scars and cuts and bruises all over, too. Even a bandage around his left arm. He had a clean slate with Lazarus Rising, Becky knows, but his body’s gotten battered all over again since. One of the scars, a large one slicing across his chest, stops dangerously close to his anti-possession tattoo. She reaches out, running her finger along the bump and ridges of the scarring, and Dean groans.

The scar looks like it hurt.

It’s a little less firework-y than the fic told her fucking Dean Winchester would be. It’s good, as far as sex goes. But there aren’t any stars exploding behind her eyelids, no minutes-long hot waves of pleasure, and he fumbles a little when he looks for her clit to rub her to completion.

Oh well. Maybe Sam’s the real sex giant between the two of them. That would make sense. Beware the quiet ones. 

When Becky visits the bathroom for her post-sex pee, she meets moldy walls and a large cockroach sitting on the edge of the tub. Maybe this motel living thing is less romantic than she thought it would be. When she screams, Dean bursts in with a shotgun, tense at a moment’s notice.

He’s always waiting for the other shoe to drop, and that’s no way to live, is it? She gets queasy to her stomach when just waiting for a meeting with her boss! Sam and Dean expect murder attempts before breakfast. Worse, they even go looking for things that might kill them.

Dean kills the cockroach for her because he’s a real hero.

“Is there really so much about Sam and Castiel in those books?” Dean says as she looks for her clothes, strewn all over the motel room. He sounds nonchalant, but she knows he isn’t. Becky smirks to herself.

“Oh, yeah,” she nods, putting on a chipper voice, “he’s totally eyeing Sam for his heavenly mate. And not just him. Men all over. Sam’s gorgeous. Everyone wants him!”

She zips her skirt back up. “You might wanna make a move before someone snatches that tall hot piece of ass off the market.”

“I’m not making a fucking move!” Dean yells. “You freaky weirdo.”

“You did hear about the amputee!Sam verse, and it’s, like, way underrated,” Becky says. “You wouldn’t have stumbled upon it unless you went looking. Just go for it. He likes you too.”

Dean groans. “For a split-second there, I forgot how batshit you are. It was a nice second. I enjoyed that second.”

Becky scoffs, then falls serious. “Chuck’s been talking to me. He says he’s been having more visions. They’re foggy. But they’re definitely... no good.”

“Oh, there’s more shit incoming in the close future?” Dean laughs, humorless. “Color me fucking surprised.”

“You know bad things are coming for Sam,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I was scared for him even when I thought he was made up. And now… I’m terrified.”

Dean’s silent for an uncharacteristically long while. Then nods. “I’ll watch his back. Always do.” 

That’s when one simple thing dawns on Becky Anne Rosen. She couldn’t have been Sam’s ride or die because he already has one, and Dean has been doing that job for a very long time. Far better than she ever could hope to. 

It’s okay. Dean can keep the blood and the guts and the motel cockroaches and even Sam.

Fantasy is better than reality.

\---

“Her? Really?” 

“Hey, she was hot. And you know what they say about sticking your dick in crazy?” 

“Don’t do it?”

“No, the other thing.”

“There’s no other thing.”

“There’s some saying about crazy chicks being wild and awesome at sex.”

“No saying like that. You just made that up to make yourself feel better about your piss-poor taste in partners.”

“You’re piss-poor.”

“What are you, five?”

“Speaking of five, I owe you for the laundromat,” Dean said and opened his wallet. But an adorable picture of Sam and him fell out instead. Dean blushed. “Just holding that for a friend,” he said in a husky voice. 

Sam gazed into his emerald orbs.

“All our friends are dead,” Samuel said empathetically. He grabbed Dean by the ears and pulled him into a wet kiss.

Becky nods to herself and keeps typing. “Through The Con Doors, And What Becky Found There” is going to be a hit.


End file.
